


Amber

by The Hedonistic Angel (englandwouldfalljohn)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Twitter, M/M, Pre-Slash, Pure and simple, aziracrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:37:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/The%20Hedonistic%20Angel
Summary: Aziraphale makes a minor confession that could change everything.





	Amber

The wine had been flowing since sunset, and now here, in the early hours, so too were the tears of laughter, streaming down Crowley’s face. Exchanging stories about their lives, about their time on Earth and the gaps between those fateful meetings, had been the order of the evening. As Aziraphale chortled into his glass, drunk enough to revel in his own wit, he failed to notice the awe of the being considering him from across the tiny spindle-legged table. 

“Have you always been this fucking funny? Suppose you must’ve, eh? Or I wouldn’t’ve stuck around six thousand years and counting.”

“Oh! Thank you, that’s…” the angel paused, taking another generous sip to hide his embarrassment. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I’mnot being  _ kind _ ; I don’t do  _ kind _ . I happen,” he paused, waving one hand about with a casual flourish, “to enjoy your company.”

Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to the ring of moisture forming around the bottom of his glass, white-blond brows furrowing. 

“What? You don’t believe me? Look, I’ll swear it. Demon’s honor.”

“No, Crowley, it’s not that exactly. It’s just… I’m always afraid that people won’t… like me.”

“People? What people?” he inquired sharply, twice as sober as he’d been a moment ago. “Listen, give me names and I’ll see to it personally that they-”

“There’s no one specific. Except, well.  _ You know. _ ”

“No,” Crowley replied honestly as the bottle of scotch on the sideboard silently refilled itself.

“No one except for… you. Nevermind,” he continued quickly, willing the redness in his face to fade, “it doesn’t-”

A hand fell over his where it had been anxiously tracing the wood grain, one slender finger caressing the silver wings of his favorite ring.

“Matter?” he supplied in a sad whisper.

Aziraphale swallowed but said nothing, for the first time in his life too afraid to speak.

“Oh, Angel. My own Angel.”

A pair of black glasses broke Aziraphale’s paralyzed vision as they were set down on the table. Braving an upward glace, he was not prepared for the vulnerability that met him in those warm amber eyes.

“My own Angel,” he repeated tenderly. “It matters.”


End file.
